


Left unsaid

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [95]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Webber is mentioned, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27658529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Series: DS Extras [95]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Left unsaid

_"Do not grieve for me when I die."_

He did not know why his own words haunted him, deep in the night and tending to the fire, a late night watchman, but haunt they did.

It hadn't meant much, the moment he had spoken them, and Maxwell hadn't even put much thought into such things when he had finally untangled himself from the effigies wooden prison and tumbled out into the campgrounds dry yellowed grasses. The first thing spoken after death was significant enough, he supposed, but only after the first few; the former Nightmare King has died so many times by now that it held no meaning behind it any longer.

No meaning that meant anything to the grand scheme of things, anyhow. Not to the others, if he could ever help it.

Perhaps that was why those were his first words spoken to Webber when they had come hurtling out from nowhere and nearly tackled him to the ground, effigy wood still clinging to his suit, sobbing a mess of spidery distress and choked apologies.

They were relatively uninjured, that set the weight off Maxwell's shoulders at the very least, a bit of bristle loss and faint scratches over their carapace from the hounds claws and teeth, but they had wailed against him anyway, whimpered hissing and spider spitting clicks as they warbled out their grief. He had been able to make out the problem, of course; Webber had survived the hounds, struggled out from under one and took off to the trees as Maxwell had whistled, whooped and hollered at the massive canines, made their attention draw to him and him alone, and unfortunately it seems the child had figured that out rather quickly.

By the time help had come around, dealing with their own wolf attacks as the pack stretched itself thin, Maxwell hadn't exactly survived his encounter, but at the very least Webber had gotten up a tree and was safe until rescue.

Still, being confronted near immediately after reviving, still panting for strained air, still shivering from phantom memory pains and brushing off the wooden strips of his rotting effigy, it certainly didn't feel as if he had to explain himself. It should be obvious, that Webber needn't apologize for anything, or feel some sort of grief in the matter.

Death happens, quite a lot out here, and Maxwell had made that decision earlier to bring himself that danger to ensure the spider child's safety. If it ever happened again he wouldn't change his actions; Webber did not deserve to die in such a way.

They didn't deserve to be here either, and perhaps that was another reason. Maxwell tried to not think about it too much; it brought the storm clouds rolling in and then his thoughts would spiral, leave him beached on shores of regret and despair that he just...he had no time or energy to deal with.

And yet, the first thing he had said to the child, the first words out of his mouth...a bit heavy handed, yes, now that he thought about it later, by himself next to the firepit in the crowding heaviness of the night darkness. Webber had been distressed, perhaps traumatized from seeing him be ripped to shreds by the very hounds he had created, and the poor child was obviously not handling his death well.

_"Do not grieve for me when I die."_

What a rather horrible thing to say, and yet Maxwell did not think there was much else he could have said. Still ill from effigy revival, spider child suddenly clinging to his shivering balance and warbling their sadness and fear over his death, and the former Nightmare King had spoken his mind. And then easily untangled their claws, led them to whoever was closest, thankfully it was Wes this time and not someone who would poke and prod him for answers in some loud and harsh manner, and left them to the comfort of someone who was much better at such things than himself.

The mime had looked confused, worried, of course he would, but Webber had still been sobbing those tearless cries of theirs, devolving into shivering hiccups, and Maxwell found it easy to shift the focus from himself onto the child.

Who obviously needed the extra attention, the extra reassurances. Wes should be able to distract them from thoughts of death or Maxwell, or of Maxwell's death, and that was good enough for him.

They shouldn't have to think of such things, after all.

The fire kept the camp enwreathed with light, warm colors flashing, dancing about as Maxwell added to it before settling once again to keep watch, though his eyes didn't land on much besides camp and ground and sky and flame.

Webber shouldn't have been so distressed, earlier.

_"Do not grieve for me when I die."_

Perhaps he should have said nothing at all; they were a child, and did not need more of this harsh world to be piled atop them. They certainly didn't need thoughts and worries for himself to lay upon their young conscious; Maxwell had chosen to save them, and, while he'd never admit it verbally, he always would, his death notwithstanding. 

He'd always be back, after all. An unfortunate consequence of his actions, of the Constant and how he has shaped it from his time upon the Throne; should this rule of the universe be broken, should he never come back, it wouldn't matter nor change much.

It shouldn't, anyway. Webber had other, more important things to keep in mind than an old man who had done them so much ill will. 

...it confused him, mildly. There had been no other welcome from the others after his revival; his efforts to keep quiet and away from the others had succeeded, left him time to gather dark flowers and refuel his reserves of nightmare oils, and if no one batted an eye for his appearance after traumatic death then all the better. Webber had been the sole outlier, and that didn't sit right within his hollowed out chest.

He had meant what he had said, of course. Wobbling out of the effigies grasping wooden armor of safety, exhausted and ill and in varying states of pain, of course his first words to the child would be more honest than white lie or false assurances. 

_"Do not grieve for me when I die."_

Maxwell had meant what he said, and it may be the closest true thing he's ever said in a great long while. Webber should not feel such distress at his passing, and never truly should.

What a weight on a child's shoulders, and it made the old former Nightmare King shift and adjust in discomfort, curl and hunch close to the fire, alone with his thoughts. 

Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything at all.


End file.
